


Tropical Heat

by Predatrix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Jossed, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Masturbation/Weird Magical Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape, magical tattoos and overheating. Lord Voldemort has left him a few embarrassing little reminders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tropical Heat

Nobody was pleased that Severus Snape was going to lead assorted seventh-years on a trip to a tropical rainforest.

Sprout, who had been banging on endlessly about the trip for months, looked very dispirited indeed.

She’d had a Howler from her sister: nobody had been trying to listen, but such words as, “disgraceful”, “irresponsible” and “our poor mother’s on her deathbed” were fairly clear.

Since Sprout’s mother had been on her deathbed for forty years, Snape was less than convinced.

Sprout said, “Well, I’ll just go and unpack, then. Sorry, Albus. You know how much I’ve been looking forward to this.” Looking as though she could weep, she headed for the stairs.

Snape was distracted by feeling a momentary pity, which infuriated him. He thought he’d extirpated every last trace of such emotions years ago.

Unfortunately, the thought delayed him long enough for Dumbledore to volunteer him for the job. He’d opened his mouth to refuse in no uncertain terms, only to be drowned out by Dumbledore smoothly stating that he was “sure you’ll love the chance to collect fresh ingredients, Severus. There are quite a few Potions which are much more efficient if the ingredients are harvested fresh, and the ingredients may be rare anyway.”

He’d stopped to think, even though he _knew_ that was manipulation.

A few of the rarer ingredients came through mashed or mangled or dried or adulterated, and he’d often caught himself thinking “give me five minutes with one of those roots and a decently-sharp knife, and I’d do a better job.” And he’d be able to brew some of the trickier Potions on the spot, which he never liked leaving to other people. And half the magical chemists in Britain were sloppy in their measurements and testing, and at least he’d know he had a pure sample of whatever-it-was, and...

Snape, who fervently subscribed to the theory that hell was other people’s children, was surprised to find that leading a school trip might have its good points.

Thinning the herd by feeding Longbottom, Potter and Weasley to a rare tropical monster, for example.

“All right, I’ll do it,” he snapped.

Dumbledore looked quietly pleased.

Everyone else looked disappointed.

Sprout and Hagrid gave him exhaustive lists of plants or animals they’d like to obtain.

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t too bad, at first. The journey, by portkey, left everybody else appallingly sick and shaky, to look at them. He silently handed round the anti-nausea medication he’d had the foresight to make up (and taken on his own account, which was why _he_ wasn’t feeling like that).

He was fascinated to note that they were feeling so bad that nobody asked what it was or accused him of trying to poison them.

“If you’ve regained your interest in life,” he said, affably nasty, “let us continue what passes for giving you an education. Don’t tread on any snakes or insects: they may kill you. Don’t eat any of the brightly-coloured fruit, ditto. Don’t sniff the flowers: some of them contain powerful natural narcotics.”

In point of fact, he’d made a trip out here beforehand and set wards against all the local unpleasantnesses. He didn’t actually want to let anyone get killed. His actions had led to such a result in Voldemort’s service, and he hadn’t cared for it.

Besides, the paperwork alone would be prohibitive, and Albus would make him write to the parents.

He remembered Argus Filch talking to him about punishing children: “I ain’t allowed to _use_ thumbscrews an’ racks an’ whips an’ belts an’ chains an’...all  them other interestin’ things, but there’s nothin’ to stop me _tellin’_ the little bastards about them.”

Leaving aside the less healthy aspects of Argus’s tastes, the man had had a point.

Snape liked watching the radiance drain from their little faces as they started thinking about venom and teeth and claws rather than the pretty flowers of the forest.

 

 

 

He was still watching them, with pleasure, when he became aware of an unaccustomed discomfort on his own account.

At that point, he swayed... what was... oh, the heat. Damn. Well, he couldn’t dress in something more appropriate, there were reasons for that, which he was having difficulty thinking of at the moment, but his mind wasn’t working with its usual fine crystal clarity.

Damn. A properly-cowed subset of pupils, a change of scene, a veritable forest of fresh ingredients—and what did he do, fall apart like a cheap cauldron! What sort of example did _that_ set?

Malfoy, of course, had a ‘helpful’ hand under his elbow instantly. _Tart. That set of moves was threadbare even when his father applied it to me,_ Snape thought morosely, ignoring Draco’s showy attempt to lick his lips.

Jerking away, he almost fell over Potter, underfoot as usual. That was infuriating. His right foot throbbed. At least Potter couldn’t know why his foot was...unusual. There’d never even been a rumour about that.

Granger, of course, was saying something knowledgeable about sunstroke in a high-pitched voice. _Stupid girl,_ he thought, while mentally kicking himself for not taking precautions against the heat.

A wet cloth rubbed against his face.

“I think we have to get him out of those clothes,” said Granger, nervously and without much enthusiasm.

“No.” He had just enough strength to growl. “Not the clothes.”

Everyone stepped back.

Weasley said, “He can’t hex us, not like that.”

Granger said, from a safe distance, “He can’t hex us _now.”_ She paused. “He has a _very_ long memory.”

A hand gripped his sleeve.

“No.” He’d forgotten why he was saying it.

“But _sir,”_ said Malfoy sulkily, the way he did any time he was crossed.

“No.”

He opened his eyes very slightly and found himself confronted by a wall of Slytherins. This was uncalled-for. A bit of cautious guidance (because no other teacher in the school was going to take even the most perfunctory care of them) and _now_ look what he got. He really was going to have to try harder to frighten them when he got back.

He glared.

Malfoy looked sulky, and tempted. His thugs looked as if they’d be much happier as soon as they could find somebody to thump, but they weren’t considering thumping their Head of House. Parkinson (Malfoy’s on-again-off-again girlfriend and probable future wife for dynastic reasons) looked jealous, but surprisingly determined to do what was best for him. Bulstrode (who had a soft spot for him since he stopped a large Hufflepuff girl drowning her toy stoat in the toilet when she was ten) looked protective.

He really was slipping up on the loco-parentis side of things. Practically Gryffindor-ish. How depressing. What protection would it give any of them if they got the impression someone was looking after them and they could let their guards down?

After managing to intimate to his Slytherins that he needed to be left alone, he closed his eyes.

 

 

 

“But we need to take those clothes off him or he’ll overheat,” said Granger.

_Oh priceless. Having exerted my authority on my House, here come the Gryffindor contingent. Too stupid, as ever, to realise when something’s none of their bloody business._

“Go away,” he muttered, without opening his eyes.

“Look on the bright side, if we’re scarred for life by Snape’s loathsome naked body,” said Weasley rather cheerfully, “at least we can visualise him naked next time he tries to intimidate us.”

A hand tugged at his cloak.

“No.”

Potter’s hand—and he was furious to realise that after years of inspecting Potter narrowly for wrongdoing he could probably pick that hand out of a crowd of pretenders with his eyes shut—came down on his own.

He hexed Potter across the clearing, practically involuntarily.

“You can’t let him do magic when he has sunstroke,” Granger squeaked, “it’ll kill him.”

Snape drew his breath in for another spell as Potter tried again.

“Don’t be so bloody selfish!” snapped Potter. The voice was pure Gryffindor growl, but the tone had obviously spent many miserable hours with Malfoy, and learned.

Snape steadied his wand and aimed.

“I said don’t be selfish...” (pause) “...sir,” and I meant it. You’ve protected me sometimes, because you don’t want to explain to the Headmaster if anything happens to me.”

Snape breathed shallowly.

“Well, I don’t want to stand in front of Professor Dumbledore and explain how I let his Potions professor spontaneously combust, sir. You know how he gets when he just looks at you in silent reproach.”

Snape shut his eyes. He did indeed know that. Conserving his energies for the more important part of the battle, he allowed them to unbutton the top part of his robe.

“I don’t believe it,” said Weasley, “he’s actually got a waistcoat on under that and a vest under _that_.”

“No further,” muttered Snape obstinately.

“You haven’t got anything we haven’t got,” said Harry.

“He’s got the _Dark Mark,_ you fool!” snapped Hermione.

Snape shuddered. It wasn’t the one on his _arm_ he was worried about; it was the other ones.

 

 

 

 

 

When people were young, they were stupid.

When Severus Snape had been young, he had been _impressively_ stupid.

The normal Dark Mark, later on, had been almost a workaday matter after the pain of receiving it – recognise one’s colleagues or get called in as necessary. No more personal than a secret handshake or a business card.

However, Riddle (who had still been attractive when Snape was young) had had power and charisma when he’d first experimented with magical tattooing.

Snape, high on a potent combination of flattery and sex and achievement, hadn’t even objected. Riddle had given him arcane knowledge, lots of attention, and the best (the only) blowjobs he’d ever had.

 

 

 

 

It had taken him months to find out it wasn’t worth it.

“You’re mine,” Riddle had hissed. One shouldn’t be able to hiss a phrase entirely without a sibilant, but a Parselmouth with a few discreet snake-like adaptations had been able to do it rather well.

“Yours?” he’d gasped, excited and frightened and playing for time.

“Yesss. Bend over, drop your trousers, and lean over that desk.”

“But I—”

“Ask no quesssstions!”

Well, it had hardly been a revelation that Riddle liked unquestioning submission from others. On the other hand, he’d been rather surprised that Riddle had reached for his set of enchanted needles...

Although he hadn’t really been wrong: Riddle had apparently been tremendously excited by the process of tracing out the tattoo on Snape’s backside, and had fucked him roughly and hastily over the desk

Snape, who had wanted pleasure rather than pain, had tried to conceal the tears in his eyes.

“Oh, little one,” Riddle had murmured, “only trust me, and next time you will sssseeee. A ssspecial treat.”

 

 

 

 

 

The next time they met, he’d kept a wary eye on Riddle.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” said Riddle.

“You’re not going to make me do that again? But you mentioned a special treat?” He hated being caught out in unjustified assumptions.

For the first time, he’d found Riddle’s hissing laughter unpleasant rather than attractive.

“Little one, I meant another tattoo. _This_ one will be much more to your taste.”

The second tattoo was rather more painful going on (because the skin on his ankle was thinner) and the magic was far more complex.

“Ah,” Riddle hissed eventually: “done.”

“ _What’s_ done?” He hated not knowing everything about a magical working, and he’d been lucky, because Riddle had been quite prepared to answer questions at that stage.

“The other one was simple, very little magic. Just to show whose you are and draw you home if necessary. But there will come a time when you like me less...”

“How do you know that?” he asked, interested. “By magic?”

“Be silent. Impertinent little one. When you like me less, I wish to remind you of the pleasure only I can give.”

“Haven’t seen any sign of it yet.”

Later on, his blood ran cold at the thought of talking to Voldemort like that, but at the time Riddle had simply laughed.

“Touch the tattoo, little one.”

He’d looked at the tattoo—a discreet scorpion, much more attractive than what he’d seen in the mirror of his ‘ownership’ tattoo. Elegant. Neatly placed on his ankle-bone.

Finally, he’d touched it, and the most amazing sensation had flooded through him. Better than gaining the Doctor John Dee Prize for Applied Alchemy in his fifth year, which had been the pinnacle of his school life. Better than those blazing experiments with masturbation when he was twelve. Better, even, than when Riddle had knelt down and sucked him dry.

He’d moaned, gasped, cried out—wanted more and more of it even though he thought it would probably kill him if it went on—and finally collapsed into an utterly sated puddle on the floor without having enough brain left to wonder how he’d come so hard without ruining his clothes.

“It’s magically bound into the pleasure-centre in your brain. Multiple orgasms without mess or refractory period. And completely under _my_ control.”

He had, at the time, been grateful, and fascinated. He’d demanded it again and again.

 

 

 

 

 

He’d never used what he thought of as ‘the trigger’ since.

 Sometimes he _ached_ to touch his extra sexual organ. Sometimes it itched and throbbed with need. He never dared—masturbation wasn’t a problem, but if Riddle was thinking of him, calling to him, he couldn’t risk it.

Most of the time he hadn’t thought much about it, except to make sure his socks and boots covered it.

He hadn’t thought that even in practical terms it was a bloody nuisance. Not till now. Why hadn’t he _thought?_ Even a bit of bandage would have solved the problem quite well, keeping anything from touching it.

His high boots and thick socks were fine for an October dungeon, but he hadn’t even thought about the problem of bringing them out here.

 

 

 

 

 

Snape dozed.

He discovered, on opening his eyes woozily, that someone had organised setting up camp, with only a minor kerfuffle on discovering they had brought primitive Muggle tents by mistake instead of wizard tents, which usually contained a three-bedroom house. At least they had wizarding bedrolls that shrank down into something the size of a hankie and rose up into a bed that fitted the space available.

“Where is everybody?” he asked (wouldn’t you just know it) the three Gryffindors remaining.

“Your lot said they’d look for food if we set the tents up,” said Weasley.

“They seemed to be having a battle for leadership in the undergrowth,” put in Potter, “but then they settled down to look for food.”

“Malfoy has a bow,” Granger added. “Shrunk down to the size of a brooch, but he can bespell it back. I don’t actually know that one: it’s really useful for travel, obviously.”

“Funny thing is,” added Weasley with relish, “he can’t actually draw it, so he’ll have to get Crabbe to shoot for him.”

“If he can teach him to aim,” said Potter.

 “So what are you three doing?” Snape murmured faintly.

“Delegating,” said Weasley, “and trying to convince you...”

“...to strip naked in a hostile environment. Thank you, no.”

“You’re an obstinate, annoying bastard, but I don’t actually want you to be ill,” said Potter.

There were three pairs of hands all over him now, and he _could_ tell which were Potter’s. How inconvenient. Especially since his body appeared to have chosen now to react to nearly two decades of sexual starvation, and decided it _wanted_ Potter to rip its clothes off.

The robe was gone, and he was only in his underclothes. He was willing to admit that a thick warm vest and two layers of knee-length woollen underwear were probably not ideal, but no power on earth was going to divest him of them.

“Go away,” he said.

 The three Gryffindors refused.

“This is a medical emergency, or it soon will be if you dress like that, sir,” said Granger respectfully. “I don’t think you’ve got heatstroke yet, but if you keep wearing those you will.”

“I don’t want to see your naked body, sir,” said Weasley, “but we’ll be in _minus_ House points if we go back with your corpse, sir, and that’s even counting that Dumbledore’s usually on our side.”

Snape felt a grudging flicker of satisfaction: it hurt, sometimes, that the dice were so loaded in Gryffindor’s favour, and he’d always presumed that Gryffindors thought it was how the world should be.

“There isn’t room for all three of us in that tent trying to undress him,” said Granger practically.

“We’ll draw straws,” said Harry, and continued: “Right, I’ve got the short one. Hermione, you’re good at setting up fires safely, you sort out the cooking fire. Oh, and put a silencing charm on that tent: I should think he’s going to shout at me if I try to talk him into doing anything. Ron, help me shove him into the tent, and I’ll try to get all that wool off him.”

Snape groaned slightly. Sweat was pouring off him, Potter was about to make an inconvenient discovery in removing his clothes; now was _not_ the time to discover he rather liked the thought of Potter being offhandedly dominant.

 

 

 

 

There wasn’t much room in the tent. Potter kept brushing against him and apologising, until Snape, nerves run ragged, gave him the sharp edge of his tongue.

“Sorry,” said Potter.

Snape wriggled irritably,  pressing his rock-hard prick against the bed so that Potter couldn’t see anything. He adjusted the front of his underwear to permit Potter to pull it down without trapping anything important.

“Damn,” said Potter, “should have got your boots off... Oh. My. God.”

_I should have thought. I have something to conceal either way up._

Potter, he hoped, hadn’t seen his erection. He had, however, seen the red heart, captioned PROPERTY OF L V, traced neatly on Snape’s backside.

“I _hope,_ ” said Potter, voice admirably steady, “that’s a hangover from the past.”

Snape forced himself to look up. “I have regretted my youth for many years, Potter.”

He’d thought the ‘Voldemort’ thing was a private pet-name between them at first. God, he’d been a fool. No clue that the powerful and charming wizard was a dangerous megalomaniac. He’d been young, but he should have known.

“Anyway,” said Potter, “I’d better get your boots off.”

_Oh no!_

Potter murmured something and gently pressed a thumbnail down Snape’s boots, which split and peeled off effortlessly.

“I don’t know that spell,” Snape said, interested.

“I sort-of made it up, sir.” Potter eyed him warily. “Muggles have this zip thing for fastening and unfastening quickly, and I borrowed the concept.”

Snape relaxed. “Good,” he said. It had been pressure that he’d been afraid of, it might have made him...

“Just get the socks off,” said Potter, and tugged, his right thumb happening to press firmly on Snape’s exposed ankle-bone as he pulled.

 Snape bellowed, and climaxed violently. It seemed to last for ever; precise fierce pulses that started where Potter kept his thumb on the trigger and finished by pounding through his aching prick and drenching the bed. He wriggled: it was so good, so _very_ good that he couldn’t keep still.

That had, he thought dazedly, almost been worth it. It had been the best orgasm he’d ever had, and it was almost worth the hurt he was going to feel when he looked at the shock and repulsion and horror in Potter’s face...

He forced his eyes open and his head round, and looked straight at a slightly bemused expression that melted into a lecherous sideways grin.

“I know I’m good, sir,” said Potter quietly, “but nobody’s ever come while I took their footwear off before. Are you a foot-fetishist?”

Not an insult, apparently; no trace of mockery or condemnation, just healthy sexual curiosity.

“I suppose,” said Snape quietly, “I owe you an explanation. The Dark Mark wasn’t the first time Tom Riddle played around with magical tattooing. He practiced the idea on his intimates. I was young, and stupid.” He sighed. “Next time I call _you_ stupid, I suppose you’re at liberty to remember I was worse. You cannot regret it or hate it more than I do.”

“Why? I mean, you’re a bastard, but you’re worth more than a red-eyed power-mad half-corpse.”

“He was still mostly human then. He was even still mostly sane. And I didn’t see the warning signs. I believe you saw something of what he was like when he was a boy.”

“He wasn’t bad-looking. But I didn’t like him. Except I didn’t _know_ why I didn’t like him.”

Potter, Snape thought, had good natural instincts about half the time.

“Was he your first?” Potter asked.

Snape shuddered.

“Sorry.”

“He was, unfortunately. It wasn’t pleasant....it wasn’t _all_ pleasant. I wouldn’t recommend the way I lost my virginity.”

“Which was?”

“When he finished the tattoo on my buttock, he wished to assert his ownership, so he sodomised me roughly there and then. I’ve always been more-or-less homosexual, but I’ve never wanted that particular form of intercourse since.”

“He raped you.”

“I...consented. I would have denied him nothing,” Snape said harshly. There was a bitter taste in his mouth.

“That’s worse. I mean, my first time with a bloke wasn’t with someone _nice_ , but at least he had the grace to do the job properly and not put me off for life.”

“He was mildly contrite afterwards. He put a complicated magical working in the other tattoo as a ‘special treat’ for me.” Swiftly and economically, Snape outlined the meaning and purpose of the ‘trigger’.

“God, that’s _fucked._ And not in a good way,” said Potter, with disgust. “He didn’t really feel anything for you at all, it was all power games.”

“It took me months to realise that. I was stupid.”

“How do you think _I_ felt when I realised I’d been writing to him for weeks,” said Potter. “He has a lot of superficial charm when you don’t realise who he really is. Anyway, I’ll sort out that damn tattoo. It’s not only tasteless, like the one on your arm, but it could put you in danger in the future.”

“Do you actually _know_ how to?”

“I think so. Dumbledore wondered if we could have a _good_ one, a sort of Light Mark, but once we’d found out enough we found most of the magics for ownership and possession were somewhat Dark. I read up on it, and we also studied how to remove them. Doubt I can get rid of it completely, but I’m fairly sure I can safely remove the link to Voldemort.”

Snape cocked an eyebrow at him. “I see fame has its benefits. The average seventeen-year-old would not be permitted even to _touch_ those books, let alone read them.”

“Dumbledore thinks I should know a bit about the Dark Arts. I mean, considering they’re going to be aimed at me rather a lot.”

Snape, who had done some amount of studying on his own account, cautiously permitted Potter to try.

This took some time. He corrected Potter’s pronunciation twice, but Potter should be getting it right.

Potter sighed, and sat back on his heels. “It’s resisting me, sir.”

“Give up.”

“I’m a Gryffindor. We don’t know _how_ to give up. I’ve got an idea which will probably work, but you won’t like it.” Potter paused, and gave him a flirty look.

“I don’t take it up the arse, Potter,” Snape growled.

“I bet it would loosen the binding on your backside. Only letting one person use you that way does help the spell set: you _are_ his property because he did that and nobody else did.”

“I simply dislike the activity.”

“You haven’t properly tried it, sir. And it’s not just because I fancy you, it’s because it would work, and because you deserve to be treated better than how _he_ treated you. Do you want your only memory of sex to be _Voldemort_?”

Snape sighed. “Not really. All right, you can try if you like. But I won’t like it. It’s painful and degrading.”

“My first time wasn’t. And that certainly wasn’t because I _liked_ the boy.”

Snape felt a faint stirring of curiosity.

“Malfoy. We can’t stand each other, but we enjoyed it. A bit of horseplay and sublimated aggression after a match, and he said he was accustomed to better things than trying it on in the changing rooms, _if_ you please, and to come back at night, in my cloak. Well, I can’t say it changed our feelings towards each other much—right afterwards he said, “Don’t imagine that anything has changed, Potter”—but it _was_ a good shag.”

“Does a bed really make that much difference?” Snape asked, curiously.

Potter ran his hand through his hair, which didn’t have any effect on its general untidiness. “Not the bed, no, but having the _time._ I mean, did Voldemort stretch you or lubricate you at all? Any foreplay?”

“Not unless you count saying, ‘loosen up, little one, are you being deliberately obstructive?’.”

“I’m going to kill him. I mean, I’m going to _anyway,_ but I’m going to do it _worse._ ”

Potter pointed his wand. _“Accio_ bag.” His possessions trailed obediently in, and he fumbled out a small pot of something and got the lid off.

“Let me smell that,” said Snape, doing a quick ingredient-check by nose. “Barely passable, although I could probably do better. Who did you bring it to use it on?”

“Me.” Potter slicked his fingers down as if he’d had some practice.

Snape looked at him.

“All right,” said Potter, “considering your bad start in life you probably haven’t got a clue about masturbation for fun. Makes it feel nice if it’s slippery, is all.”

Snape moaned softly, thinking about Potter lost in uninhibited pleasure.

“I’ll let you watch me sometime.” Quick grin, and Potter was on top of him, gently.

He tensed up.

“I won’t force you to do anything,” said Potter. “This is just to see if...” He rubbed tenderly at Snape’s behind with wet fingers.

Snape was rigid; cock pleasurably so; arse resisting invasion.

“Right, bit of lateral thinking!” Potter grabbed Snape’s knee and pushed it upwards.

Still kneading at Snape’s unforgiving backside with his hands, Potter dived towards his foot and began to suck at his ankle-bone, oh god that tongue, his skin was prickling and hot and he was _there_ , tattoo hot-wired to his brain until he was melting with sheer pleasure...

 

 

 

 

“I’m glad I got Hermione to use the silencing spell,” said Potter.

“Mm?” said Snape.

“I mean, all that ‘oh _god_ I’m coming don’t _stop_!’ stuff is all very nice, but it’s not very ambiguous.”

“No,” agreed Snape. Oh, he felt good. Hot and relaxed and satisfied.

“You know, the ‘dry orgasm’ bit worked that time. You must just have been a bit deprived, before.”

“Mm,” said Snape, wriggling his arse and discovering that it had three fingers in it and it didn’t hurt at _all._ Three fingers couldn’t be much different, dimensionally, from what Riddle had done to him. He knew it was _possible,_ but he hadn’t realised it could be _painless._

He gaped at Potter.

Potter pressed at a very particular spot inside him.

He _certainly_ hadn’t realised it could be pleasurable. He’d found references to that in books, and assumed they were sexual fantasies rather than descriptions.

“What have you got to say to _that,_ Professor Snape?” The devil-boy smirked at him.

“Mmm,” he said, rather hazily, as he watched the boy lubricate his prick. What a lovely sight. Who would have guessed the scrawny brat would tumble into adulthood so well-hung!

“I want to fuck you. Do you want to be fucked by me?” Potter said.

Snape was about to blast that comment with a couple of shots of sharpened sarcasm when he realised that there was magic in the question as well as sex. To unbind Voldemort’s little designs, Potter needed clear and confident consent.

“Yes, I want you to fuck me. Face to face, not like him.”

Potter nodded. “Mind if I put a couple of pillows under you?” he asked. “I know it’s undignified, but it should make you more get-at-able.”

Snape agreed, and let Potter manhandle him into place and begin to move, slowly and carefully.

Once or twice it hurt, which reminded him of Voldemort, but every time that happened, Potter would stay in place, touching him.

“It’s just a muscle-spasm, Severus,” Potter told him. “I’ll wait, and it will ease.”

And he did, and it did.

“I’m in,” said Potter, at last, unnecessarily. “Does it remind you of him?”

“No.”

“Good.” Potter picked up his wand and began to trace the tattoo on Snape’s backside, chanting softly. Snape could feel the lush heat of magical power bloom softly on the skin, feeding on the power of sex, drawing at the pleasure.

“There.” Potter’s hand touched it, and Snape moaned. He could feel Potter’s hand drawing the magic to the surface, his own prick frotting desperately against Potter’s belly, and Potter’s prick deep in him. Raw magic, and raw sex. _That_ was what the combination was like when it wasn’t perverted by Voldemort’s little tricks.

Potter began to chant softly. “His mark is gone, he is gone. Dust and gone, on the wind. Ash and gone, lost in fire. Bone and gone, buried in earth. Drowned and gone, swallowed in water. His mark is gone, he is gone.”

Spell or nursery rhyme or poetry, who cared? Snape went with it, letting his own climax seal the moment in a tide of cleansing pleasure that obliterated all the mistakes of the past. He could feel his arse clenching, drinking Potter down greedily, every spurt filling him and flowing out of him, and he groaned hard as it finished; half in protest and half in satisfaction.

“I know,” said Potter, stroking his sides. “You want it never to stop, if it’s good.”

“Should... castrated Riddle...blunt knife,” Snape explained, between huge yawns, and fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

He woke up. He was sweaty; he was covered in come, inside and out; there was a sour taste in his mouth; his eyes were difficult to pry open. There was also a heavy Gryffindor on top of him.

He also felt cleaner than he’d ever felt since he lost his virginity.

Elbowing Potter, he said, “Thank you. Now get me a cup of coffee and a wet cloth. And something to wear.”

Potter sighed, but did.

They wiped up and drank coffee in silence.

Potter paused before the tent-flap, clearly about to leave, his eyes unreadable.

“Don’t imagine...”

Snape remembered what Malfoy had said to Potter and felt a completely unjustifiable stab of emotional pain.

“Don’t imagine that nothing’s changed, Severus,” Potter said, gave him a quick grin, and left.

Snape shook his head in bemusement. He settled on the thin-but-concealing white nightshirt Potter had given him, although he kept wearing the boots (not wanting to be plagued with involuntary orgasms as he got on with his work).

Snapping his fingers, he levitated his pots and pans and knives and sample-bottles to follow him as he stalked around the forest.

He chopped, he checked, he collected, he brewed; he even occasionally picked up a few things for Sprout or Hagrid.

He had enormous fun. Dumbledore had been right; he _did_ like this school trip.

Even the fact that the Slytherins came back with a tale of missed shots (Malfoy, who was used to hunting on his estate with dogs and beaters and gamekeepers to help) and a brace of rabbits from a trap (at least Parkinson had reasonable sense) didn’t depress him too much. He’d set the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs to finding and baking potatoes, and Longbottom had done a mixed green salad that made Snape believe what Sprout told him about Longbottom’s real talents, because it was completely and utterly free from poisons.

 

 

 

 

 

“Potter. What are you doing in my tent?”

“I used my cloak, sir. Nobody saw me.”

Snape snorted at him.

“I said ‘what are you doing?’, not ‘how are you doing it?’.”

“Came to help with the other tattoo, sir. I mean, you’re not sure it’s not linked to him.”

Snape sighed, and removed his boots carefully.

After an hour of showy wand-waving and muttered chanting, there was a change. Something Snape had never been consciously aware of had gone: that rather nasty sense that someone with a malevolent intention had been watching him whenever the ‘trigger’ on his foot ached to be played-with.

They lay down on the bed, where Potter opened his legs for easy access to his prick and Snape drew his right leg up where Potter could handle the ‘trigger’ tattoo.

Snape satisfied his curiosity about Potter’s prick: firm steady strokes got the best effect, while lightly brushing the tip with one’s thumb always made Potter beg, and using both hands brought him to violent orgasm.

After that, Potter quickly checked the ‘trigger’ tattoo on Snape’s foot for any trace of Voldemort. This ‘checking’ involved vigorously circling his thumb until Snape gasped and begged and collapsed.

Snape suspected, from a combination of objective and subjective criteria, that these researches left them both grinning like idiots.

“Go and wash yourself, you disgusting brat,” Snape said, wishing his tone of voice sounded less fond.

Potter smirked. “Just because you can come less messily.”

“Don’t imagine I will be so lenient when we’re back at school...” _and I remember we shouldn’t really be doing this,_ he thought.

“You can be as _hard_ on me as you like,” said Potter, leering cheerfully. “Besides, it’s nearly the exams when we get back, and after that a few people have offered me a job at Hogwarts.”

“Who?” demanded Snape, interested.

“Albus. Wants a Dark-Arts man who isn’t pure fruitcake, I suppose. Hooch. Wants a decent assistant Quidditch coach. Trelawney. No idea why.”

“She wants to keep on threatening you with violent doom, I should think. It’s far less newsworthy if the victim’s at a distance.”

There was a comfortable pause.

“I would also like to point out that I have no need of a Potions assistant...”

“Good. Stop me getting big-headed.”

“...and that the reason I’m not getting annoyed about your plans is probably because my brain has been ruined by sexual over-indulgence.”

“Good,” said Potter, and reached for Snape’s foot.

Snape said something that began with “not” and ended with “again” but probably didn’t evaluate down to “not again”.

 

 

 

 

Back at Hogwarts a week later, Snape remained in blissful ignorance about the nature of his tattoos until he happened to get out of the bath one evening (yes, he did take baths, whatever the students thought), bend down to reach for his shoes, and notice the tattoo on his foot.

Instead of a scorpion it was now a discreet red-and-gold lion.

With some difficulty, he collected a pair of mirrors and inspected the tattoo he had been ignoring as behind him.

The heart was the same. It now said, PROPERTY OF H P.

_“Potter!”_ he roared furiously.

“Mmm,” said Potter, right in front of him and sounding very turned-on.

“Potter, you _bastard!”_ he said, voice cracking with indignant laughter.

“Sorry, Severus. You don’t have any idea, do you?”

“Any idea of _what?”_

“Any idea of how sexy you look dripping wet, in a furious temper, with a raging stiffie waving in the breeze.”

“Don’t change the s—”

A tongue connected neatly with the Gryffindor lion on his right foot.

Snape forgot what he’d been saying, and just moaned. Then he said, “Get that cloak off. I refuse to be sodomised by anything I can’t see.”

“Yes, sir,” said Potter obediently.

 

 

Meanwhile, in another part of the forest, Thomas Marvolo Riddle, self-styled Lord Voldemort and self-made idiot, worked at the magical trigger that had previously connected him to one Severus Snape with increasing desperation. Since certain physical changes, indulging in long-distance orgasms unwittingly provided by Snape had been the only sex he’d _had._

His luck had apparently run out. “Bastard’s only cut his own foot off,” he snarled to himself, only cheered by the certainty than Snape would therefore be getting even less sex than _him._

There was only one thing to do.

“Wormtail!” he hissed, “bend over!”

Pettigrew gulped.


End file.
